Convincingly broken
by B A Cucumber
Summary: Some secrets have to be shared to cope with the past. Warning: hints at violence! I do not own any of these characters. They belong to A.C. Doyle and the BBC "Sherlock". Updated.
1. Chapter 1

**Something about Sherlock**

On turning the corner into the narrow side-street he had seen Sherlock disappear into a minute ago, John's heart missed a beat. Sherlock was being mugged by two thick-set thugs, one of them strangling him from behind while the other one kept punching the thin body. John picked up a rubbish bag and walked towards the group. Sherlock was staring at him, eyes bulging from a puffy red face. He clung to his scarf, trying not to pass out.

"And what do _you_ want?" the one who had beaten Sherlock barked at John.

"Let him go," John said, his voice steady.

The assailants laughed and the one on Sherlock nodded at his companion to take on John who threw the rubbish bag at him. He had not seen the kick coming that sent him into the bins. Coughing, John struggled out from the debris and prepared for an unrelenting fight. Sherlock had sunk to the ground, and the other man was fumbling him for keys, phone, and purse. _Stupid_, John thought, and made a mental note to tell his friend off for walking into situations like these. He then landed a punch on the big man's nose and threw himself on him. A gun skittered from his anorak and John was glad it did. Unarmed, this was much more of a fair battle. Whatever he had done to Sherlock, he'd get in return, John thought. He heard shuffling behind him but was too tied up to pay any attention. He kept pummeling the man who had hurt his friend and only stopped when he heard Sherlock's voice screech in terror.

"_**Don't**_!" John turned to see Sherlock wrestling away from the man who had undone his trousers and was pulling them down, "_**Let me **_**go**! I swear, I'll _**stop you**_!"

John's eye went to the gun seconds before Sherlock had grabbed it and pointed it at his aggressor, "Get _**off**_!"

John saw the man grin and lean in just an inch closer, and Sherlock pulled the trigger. John shouted his name and was over there in an instant but he was too late. The head of the man had _exploded_. Sherlock's face was covered in blood and gore and he kept staring at the dead man.

"Come away, Sherlock. Get up," John pulled at his friend's arm, but Sherlock shrugged him off and stared, "Don't touch me, John".

"You're in shock. Get up, now. Come on. Give me the gun," the soldier demanded and Sherlock complied. John pocketed the weapon and ignored his friend's pleas not to touch him. He pulled and dragged him out from under the thug and kept his hand on Sherlock's back on their way back to the house.

"We have to phone Lestrade," John said when he had taken Sherlock's coat and forced the young man to sit down on the couch. Sherlock glared.

"He'll sort it out," John added. Sherlock looked shaken, and the doctor thought that he had never seen Sherlock as worked up. Maybe he was hurt.

"You should change," John nodded at the blood-stained clothes, "and shower". Sherlock smirked but rose to obey while John phoned Lestrade.

_Inevitable_, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock in his room and Lestrade on his way, John heaved a sigh. He did not want to fight with Sherlock. Nor did he want to discuss his sexuality. He just wanted things to go back to normal. _Well_, mad. _Back to barking mad_. He went to his own room to get his medical kit, and when he returned, he found Sherlock curled up on the couch wearing his old bluish gown and striped pajama bottoms, his bare feet crossed, arms folded over his stomach. John immediately saw that something was very wrong.

"You're hurt, _for God's sake_, let me _help_!" John stared at the lean young man. Sherlock glared up mysteriously and John could not help wondering what that look was supposed to tell him. If he had been one for in-depth analysis he would have opted for hatred. He was quite positive that that was what Sherlock was trying to convey. He just could not figure out who was supposed to be the subject of it.

Finally the detective rolled onto his back and undid the rope of his gown. The silky material slid to the ground and, where his T-shirt had sneaked up, exposed sore flesh.

"Why didn't you say? You may be running an infection!"

"Established as much. Don't think I am though."

"Does it hurt?"

Sherlock sneered and nodded sulkily. Meaning it _hurt like hell_.

"Good," said John adding, "not necrotic then."

"No."

The doctor settled on the sitting-room table facing his stubborn patient.

"Don't you ever ask for help?"

"What's the point?"

"_What's the_- getting _help_!"

"You're helping now," Sherlock showed off, "I didn't ask you to."

Close to angry, John pushed the shirt further up to look at the cuts and bruises that had formed on the other man's pale skin. One particularly deep cut caught the doctor's attention and he rummaged his bag for disinfectant.

"Used it up," Sherlock admitted.

"When?"

"Now and then. Obviously."

"_Obviously_. You should have _told_ me!"

Sherlock shrugged, wincing in pain at the sudden movement.

"Honestly, Sherlock," John shook his head surfacing another bottle from his bag, "sometimes you're _worse_ than a 5-year-old." Curious eyes followed the bottle, then narrowed in question.

"Diluted alcohol. Don't you dare use this up now, too." John soaked a white cloth and put it on the wound. The other man gave a reproachful hiss.

"Anything else?"

"Scraped my hand," Sherlock lifted his left hand and showed John the abrasions. John shook his head and muttered something like _willhavealookathatlater_.

He cleaned Sherlock's wounds thoroughly, rinsed them and applied some cream. Doing so, he had to lower Sherlock's pajama pants a little, but the other man shoved his hand away, "I'm alright".

"Okay, okay," John was getting angry, "Then just tell me: did he force himself on you?"

Sherlock glared.

"He tried, didn't he?" John insisted, "I mean, I _saw_- that's _why_ you. Shot him."

Sherlock's lips quivered but he still refused to speak.

"He would have raped you. It was self-defense."

"_Of course_ it was," Sherlock spat, "I won't let anyone do _that_ to me again."

Before John could react, the bell rang and he had to leave Sherlock to get the door.

"Where is he?" Lestrade asked and John pointed up the stairs.

"You said he shot someone. What did the other man do?"

"He attacked him. He tried to. _Rape_ him," John admitted and Lestrade sighed deeply. He obviously knew more than he was willing to share. John grabbed his chance to inquire further and asked what was wrong with Sherlock. He knew that the detective and the official went back a long way.

"There's _nothing_ wrong with _him_. It's the shit he's been through that's made him. _Like that_," Lestrade said, "He's damaged."

"Not _deranged_?" John joked. He knew the comments people made about Sherlock.

"No," Lestrade replied, "_no_, he's – _broken_."

"In what sense?"

Lestrade hesitated but eventually he led John away from the stairs, "_Abuse_, John. The worst forms of it. Definitely one of the most violent cases I've come across. And I've seen a few!"

"Hang on. You're saying, Sherlock Holmes was _beaten_. As a child?"

Lestrade huffed, "_Beaten_? _No_. He was _battered_. Clubbed and belted. You can't imagine the damage, John! He was so _young_ and _fragile_. He was hiding in the workroom. Curled up under a workbench. He was so thin, so pale and barely conscious. He'd lost so much blood. That bastard would have killed him. But that little chap had the strength to crawl to that room. He wouldn't give himself up, John. He just gave me that accusing stare and asked if he'd got me conclusive evidence."

"So you _knew_!"

"He'd come to the station before, accusing his. _Teacher_. He was. _Himself_. And I didn't believe him, no. So he said he'd get me evidence and then I'd have to believe him. And he did."

"Who did this to him?"

"A Mr._ Cecil Moran_," Lestrade spat and John gave him a blank look, "His headteacher!"

"_Headteacher_!" Lestrade nodded, "Look, John, he'll probably kill me for telling you all this, but he's killing me anyway. They _all_ _**knew**_, you get that? _All the Holmeses_. _All the other pupils and staff. _They were all turning a blind eye. He was _alone_, and _he_ made this decision. He came here. He asked for help. When we arrested Moran, his mum took an overdose. Couldn't bear the social disgrace, some crap like that. Sherlock _adored_ her. He was _devastated_, and they blamed _him._ The fine family just turned their backs and pretended not to care. None of them ever asked for the test results. And none would see him in suicide watch."

"Except you."

Lestrade nodded, "I had to. That kid wanted my help, and I almost messed it up. I had to look after him."

"How old was he?"

"Nine, as far as I know. When it started. The _big assault_ was much later. When he was thirteen."

"You mean you'd known for _six years_ what was going on?"

"_Nah_. He came to me about a week before it happened. Said Moran was becoming creepy. Said he was used to the beating. It was the gentle touches that freaked him out. And he was right."

"So you're saying-"

Lestrade nodded sadly, "He raped him. You wouldn't imagine anyone do that to a child! He tore that body apart, John. You must have seen victims like that. But this isn't the war! He wanted to destroy him. For a while we thought he'd succeeded."

"But he hadn't," John said, "Sherlock _did_ cope. Putting on this _Caring is a Weakness_ act". "Escaping into drugs and self-harm," Lestrade added, "I'm glad he got over it. _Ehm_-"

"Oh, no, we're _not_-" John began but gave up, "never mind".

"Listen," the detective inspector lowered his voice, "You look after him. I'll go and have a look outside". With that, Lestrade left.


	2. Chapter 2

Upstairs, Sherlock had not changed position. He stared blankly ahead and seemed lost in thought. When John walked into the room, however, he turned to him, "He didn't come up".

"No, went straight to the scene," John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing for a while. Then he added, "It hurts, John".

John clicked back into doctor's mode and approached his patient again.

"My belly," John found the other one sounded like a lost child.

"Let me see," the doctor bent over and lowered the waistband. This time, Sherlock did not slap his hand away. The skin was bruised and sore. John inspected the hip bones, too, and stopped when he noticed a strange small mark on the milky flesh, a deep red circle framing some letters. _Was that a tattoo_? Sherlock would not sport tattoos, would he? He decided it was indecent to take a closer look, so he finished his nursing job and started putting his instruments back into their bag.

"You may actually. Have a closer look," Sherlock said and John frowned.

"You're interested. Go on. I can _see_ you want to know."

John slowly shook his head. Pushed like this he did not want to inquire further. But Sherlock sat up quickly, ignoring the pain this must have caused his stomach, and he exposed the aforementioned area again, "_Look_."

"I _have_. Looked. It's a tattoo."

"No," Sherlock's voice almost proud to contradict, "It's a _branding_."

_Good Lord_, John thought. His flat mate was completely mad. A _branding_. _What next_?

"What _for_?"

"Ah. You _do_ want to know." Triumphant. "_Deduce_, or, more like you, _guess_."

John's turn to shrug. He glanced at the shape again. _Could be numbers. Words. Characters anyhow_. "I'd say it's a ritual of some sort. Secret society, that sort of thing."

"Ah."

"Is it?"

"No."

"A sign of initiation."

"Into?"

"Dunno… some. Profession."

"Boring."

"A name. Initials."

"Ah!"

"So they _are_. _Initials_?"

"Yes," smug now. Almost proud, "Of who?"

"Sherlock," John sighed. _This was getting far too personal_.

"I honestly have _no idea_."

"Try!"

John heaved another sigh, "Must be an important person. One you would want to remember."

"Because?"

"Because something's linked to her. Him. Someone-"

"Good. And what person would that be?"

"An ex."

"_Really_. You think I'd have brandings to remember my ex's?"

"Not exactly, no." _Because there weren't any_. But could he be sure of that?

"You're right enough though. This _is_ about carnality."

"Someone special then. Some_thing_ special. _Your_-" John stopped, embarrassed. _Yes. Just like Sherlock to do something as _mad_ - unlikely and unusual - as this._

Sherlock's scrutinizing eyes rested on him as if eager to find out what John was thinking.

"_First_? Yes." The detective's words almost hurt John, not because they were said but because of the way in which they were. _Cold. Distant. Cruel_.

"You had a branding. To _remember_ your first time," John resumed and was rewarded with an evil stare until Sherlock deigned correct him: "I _was_ branded. To never _forget_."

The words took more than a moment to sink in, but then John's thoughts went wild. **Was** _branded_? _But why_? _Why not forget_? He remembered Lestrade's words. _Mr. Moran_.

"You consented." _Just to make sure_.

"No."

"But the act was-" _Final attempt_.

"_No_."

"Who-"

"Dead."

"How?"

"You don't want to know." Mycroft came to John's mind. Sherlock smiled weakly, reading his thoughts.

"Good God, _Sherlock_," John said and Sherlock sat up straight.

"What? You're surprised to learn I _did_ engage in intercourse?"

"_Engage in_- no, wait, you were _forced_. That's not the same-"

"Does it matter?"

"_Does it_- ? Sherlock, are you _serious_?"

"Why should it matter?"

"Because it's not _right_! Because you were. _Abused_. Hurt. _Marked_ to never forget the humiliation … You can get rid of that, you know. There are ways."

"No."

"There are-"

"I want to keep it," Sherlock ran a finger over the red spot. He _had_ to keep it. The actual branding had been painful. Moran had used his seal ring, heated it over a candle. Sherlock pouted at the vague specks of charcoal in the mark. He had run an infection. Back then. It didn't hurt now. It was part of him.

"_Why_?"

"To _remember_," Sherlock simply stated, "I _need to_. I deleted it all. It's gone. It doesn't matter. To me. It really doesn't. But you should. Remember. _I_ should remember. Something like this. _Shouldn't I_?"

John just stared. Unable to understand. Unable to imagine.

"Wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock insisted and John nodded slowly. Nobody would be able to just _delete_ their own rape. _Nobody but_-

The mad detective got up and stiffly walked through the kitchen. He stopped outside his bedroom and half-turned back. If John had looked just then he would have seen the young man's torment. Would have realized that the blood had completely drained from his face. Would have seen his hands tremble as they fumbled the worn gown. Would have noticed his lips quiver when he quietly said, "And it was _more_, _John_. _First _and_ last_ actually," before closing the door behind himself.

John cursed his brain for processing information so damn slowly. _First and last actually_. _God_. He realized what that meant. _Had to mean_.

The doctor put his medical kit down and walked towards Sherlock's bedroom door. _What_ _now_? _Knock_? _Enter_? _And then what_? He rested his head against the cold wood and tried to imagine what the confession must have been like for the other man. Sherlock had actually admitted defeat. _In a way. It just had not broken him_. He had not allowed it to. _Them_ to. John felt a fierce anger rise in his chest. A blind rage against him who had done this to Sherlock.

He knew he should probably let it pass. _Go to bed_. Face things in the morning.

But something inside him stopped John from turning his back right now. He quietly opened the door and stepped into the detective's bedroom.

He had never been to Sherlock's room. He'd caught an idea of the mess inside on the rare occasions when the other man left the door ajar. He knew there were lots of books and objects. And there were considerable piles of washing cluttering the floor. The room smelled- _nice_ _actually_. John found this revelation strange as he had imagined the room to be stuffy and distinctly oozing cold sweat. _Like a public school dormitory_. Actually it was well-aired and there was a faint hint of an expensive perfume. A fashionable lamp added a dim light to the small space and John felt reminded of a smuggler's cave.

On his bed, Sherlock had rolled into a ball and was facing the window. John was not sure if he was staring out into the dark or just staring. Or pretending to be asleep.

"May I come in?"

"Belated question as you're already standing over me."

John sat down on the bed, but Sherlock did not stir. He did not look up either.

"You have questions," he sighed almost inaudibly.

John sank into a comfortable position and lowered his head, choosing a voice matching Sherlock's: "Who else knows?"

"Everyone. _Has an idea_. No one will ever know the full story." _Declared with authority_.

"What-?"

"_Next_."

"When-?"

A gulp. "Nineteen years ago." John tried to calculate. Double-check with Lestrade's account.

"And you never told anyone?"

"Why should I?"

"To get over it. You can't just bottle it up."

"Who do you think I should have told?" _Bitter_.

"Someone you trust."

"I'm telling _you_."

John bit his lip.

"Sherlock, I don't think I am-" _the right person_.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock pointed out, "You said you were my friend."

"Yes, but-" _because I _am…

"But _what_? You don't want to hear. _Is that it_? You're disgusted. Scared I might hold you responsible for whatever crazy idea might get into my head. Well, I wouldn't. You can't stand the idea of it, right? It appalls you. It makes you sick. So why don't you just _go_ and _leave me alone_?"

"Because you're wrong," John replied and Sherlock looked up through tearstained eyes, "I'm _not_ disgusted. And I know you wouldn't kill yourself. Not _now_."

Sherlock huffed and held out his left arm. John noticed the deadly pallor of his friend's skin which shocked him all the more when he noticed the dark marks on Sherlock's forearm. It was covered in bleeding cuts and scars. John had never seen Sherlock's arms before. The other man always kept them hidden from view. The doctor in him was screaming out just when Sherlock turned his eyes on him.

"_**What**_?" he snapped, and John grabbed the arm and twisted it in Sherlock's direction, "You cut yourself."

"Excellent deduction," Sherlock sneered and pulled away.

"Why?" John whispered and Sherlock gave an angry start, "Because I _want_ to. I _**need**_ to. And I can't stop," he looked defeated, and John shook his head, "_**What**_!"

"It's just that – _you_! It's not _fair_!"

"What's so special about _me_?"

John sighed and secretly cursed himself. How could he phrase this without sounding like he was coming on to Sherlock?

"You're - _innocent_. In your own particular way. Unspoilt. Uncorrupted. You can be. Infuriatingly honest. You're selfish and arrogant. Brilliant mostly, amazingly ignorant about some things. Sex for example."

"And that's the reason-"

"I'm not sure. It's also. You're. _Beautiful_," John chuckled and shook his head, "This is ridiculous. _What am I doing here_?"

"You think I'm _beautiful_?"

"You _are_! Just look at yourself!"

"I'm. _Pale_. Prominently. Too tall, too skinny. My fingers are too long, my face's too bony, my mouth's too big. My hair's a mess! I can't even grow a beard. Then there's the moles…"

"What moles?"

"_These_ ones," Sherlock held out an exposed arm, some liver spots standing out against the white skin, "I'm covered in them. I get _freckles_!"

"No, you don't."

"I do. _I would_ if I went under the sun." John shook his head and gestured Sherlock to stop.

"Okay. _Fine_. What about your eyes?"

"Cruel eyes. _Grey_ in colour. I've been told to scare people just by staring at them."

"They're intelligent eyes."

"Eyes can't be intelligent."

"If the person behind them is, they can."

"So what's your point then?" Sherlock suddenly cut the banter. John was lost for a moment.

"My point is that you're not only annoyingly smart, _and you know it_, but that you're equally enviably attractive and maddeningly unaware of the fact."

"You realize that you're over-using adverbs there."

"Just making a point."

Sherlock almost smiled. They looked at each other for a long while, then the younger man turned away, "You said. _Abused_. Earlier."

"I did."

"Is that what it was?"

John wanted to scream in disbelief, "Did it _hurt_? Sherlock, did. _They. _He_. Hurt_ you?"

"_Yes_," quite small, "-_they_. Did." _More than one_. John squeezed his eyes shut.

"How?" he croaked and for a while he thought that Sherlock would just ignore him again.

"They. Did. _Things_. _Made me_. _Do_ them. Stripped me … I thought it'd never end, the pain'd never end," John realized how hard the usually articulate man was trying to find the right words as he remembered, John had no doubt about that, every single action, "And then they just _did. Stop_. Left me. Bleeding and naked. Lestrade-" _I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know._

"Did you see a doctor?"

"_No_."

"Why _not_?"

"Mycroft said it wouldn't be. _Appropriate_."

"_Appropriate_! You were _raped_!"

"Stop saying that!"

"You _were_. _And I won't_."

"_Please_!"

"You were _raped_. And _branded_."

"_**John**_!"

"That's a _crime_."

"They paid for it."

"How can you be so collected about it?"

"Why does it make you so angry?"

"Because you're my _friend_! And I wasn't there for you."

"You didn't _know_ me then."

"No, but - apparently you were all _alone_! You were in pain. You had no one to talk to. Not even your brother! _I _- this is just too much, _sorry_."

John got up and walked to the door.

"_John_," Sherlock mewled, rolling onto his other side and watching his flat mate leave, "No one has ever called me beautiful. _Or_ innocent." John could hear the unspoken thanks and nodded. He knew he should have thrown his arms around the other man. But he was not sure if Sherlock wanted to be hugged. He wasn't even sure if he had ever been hugged. Shaking his head sadly, he walked up the stairs to his own bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Something about John**

For a split second he had wondered if John would come back. He was almost sure he had seen something flicker in the other one's eyes. Just for a split second. Just for that one intimate moment had he thought, hoped, wished, John would come back and save him. Save him by wrapping his arms around his slender body and hold him.

He could not say why. He did not feel attracted to John. As it were he did not feel physically attracted to anyone. _Male or female_. But there was something about John that made him feel safe. There was something that eased the pain which sometimes became unbearable.

He had tried drugs, _of course_, given the scientific curiosity in them. He had smoked them, swallowed them, injected himself with all sorts of substances. For a while all had helped. After a while they had all worn off and left him as hollow as before. So he had dropped the habit and married himself to his work. He had denied all emotion and drowned any feeling of compassion welling up. Caring was dangerous. Trusting even more so. _Yet John he trust_.

From the first time he had lain eyes on the other man he had known that there was something kind about John. Not that kindness was a concept Sherlock Holmes valued in the least. Still in John he found it almost touching. He knew the doctor was a tough guy, had seen much more shit than he had, and still he had retained that cheerful outlook on life that Sherlock had never possessed. John had seen people die where he had only dealt with dead bodies. _Clean, stiff, and cold_. John had seen life pour out of them and still he was softer than Sherlock had ever been. A wave of jealousy came over the young man and he pouted.

_Innocent_, John had said. _Honest. Uncorrupted_. But was he?

Sometimes Sherlock doubted he was like other people. He knew he loved pursuing his own goals. Interference only violated the equation. If he wanted to succeed, he could not allow others near his work. _Yet John_…

Sherlock remembered the pain all too vividly. He still felt the hard grasp on his wrists, the strain to his shoulders when they had held him down. He remembered the sounds, the cruel rasps of laughter, the panting, the ripping of cloth, the lashing of his belt used as a whip, the smashing of glass, the dull thuds of books toppling over. He _**saw**_ the scattered pile of school reading. _**Read**_ _Silas Marner_. He knew he would hate the novel forever. He remembered the hard impact of the wooden floor, remembered he had never expected wood to be so hard. He remembered the first cuts and bruises. To his face, neck, hands, knees, back. He could smell the blood and fear he had smelled then. He relived the pain, the various forms of it, the exhaustion, the futility of his resistance, the choking, the resignation, the shame when-

He blinked away a tear and tried to think of other things. He knew he only had to focus hard enough and he would be able to forget. _For a while_.

He remembered being completely blank and remembered how much the realization had hurt. He had been completely blank because he had had nobody to think on. _Nobody to hope for. Today there would be John_.

Back then he had somehow managed to get through to Lestrade. Nothing elaborate, merely, "Find me in the Work Room! 6 PM. Urgent!" on the phone and Lestrade had helped. He had brought Mycroft, too, who always meddled but who never understood. He had never _felt_ anything for Sherlock. He did what was considered his duty, and he did what he had promised Mother. He looked after Sherlock in his odd enough kind of way. But he had always remained a stranger. John had never been a stranger. Maybe because Sherlock had looked right through him within minutes. Maybe because he liked him.

_I'd be lost without my blogger_.

Mycroft had walked into the room (his room where the police had taken him against his will) and had taken control. He had told Sherlock to pull himself together and have a shower. He had seen to quick results to his blood tests.

Sherlock knew he ought to be grateful, but he could not forget the way his brother had looked at him then. He could not erase the memory of that reproachful and disgusted snare. _What did you get yourself into now_? _Was that necessary_? _Are you happy now_? He had read the questions in Mycroft's eyes. _As if it had been his fault. As if he had invited the other boys. Or Mr. Moran. As if he had _enjoyed_ it_.

The mess in his lap, the blood, his greasy hair, his caked lips and face smudged with all sorts of liquids, strange ones as much as his own, Mycroft had taken it all in and said: "Better clean yourself up. You don't want anyone to see you like that," and Sherlock had never felt so embarrassed in his life. He had blushed and struggled to get up. Mycroft had not helped, but wrinkled his nose and gone to open a window. Sherlock had limped into the bath trying to cover his nudity with the rag that had once been his blue shirt. He had felt ashamed of his body having betrayed him by reacting mechanically and involuntarily and he had felt dirty.

He had spent little under an hour in the shower scrubbing himself sore.

When he was done, the room had almost gone back to normal and a paramedic had drawn some blood and handed him a bottle of antibiotics. No one had said anything helpful. Lestrade had taken him to hospital, had him put in Suicide Watch, had apologized and tried to talk him into counseling. Sherlock had said nothing, so they had left him alone.

Today there was John. And there was something about John that made him smile and let him fall asleep eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

**Something about Mycroft**

He had hesitated. _Honestly_, he _had_. For the better part of the day, John had tried to forget. He thought he had done his best pushing Sherlock's story to the back of his mind, but he had failed. He was shocked. Deeply shaken by the tragedy of it. And disgusted. Appalled by the cruelty of it. _Nineteen_ years ago, Sherlock had said. He had been thirteen! John had tried to imagine the fear and loneliness that Sherlock must have felt. He had tried to remember Afghanistan. But he had failed to link the two situations. _He_ had been a grown man. Sherlock had been a _child_.

It had been lunchtime when John made up his mind. Sherlock had not yet left his room. In fact, he had not even made any of his usual noises. So either he was sulking, or he was asleep. Both would have been nothing out of the ordinary. John dared not think about a third option. That was why he had to find Mycroft, talk to the brother, the only other person who knew.

He had texted him. Nothing elaborate really, but he had hoped Mycroft would take the hint in: "Must talk to you. Saw branding. Heard the story behind it. J. Watson" and the older Holmes brother did.

They met in a Chelsea café and Mycroft smiled his little smile at John who sighed.

"So, Dr. Watson. You asked me to meet. To have a chat about Sherlock's unsavory past."

"I've got questions. Yes," John felt uneasy. The mocking undertones in Mycroft's voice made him reconsider his endeavor.

"Last night, I happened to see Sherlock's. Branding."

"Did you now? Congratulations," Mycroft sneered, adding, "I'm impressed. Not many have had the. Pleasure. Of seeing my little brother. Unclothed."

"He was fully dressed, alright? His shirt had gone up, and I saw," John cut in, blushing.

"I'm sure you did."

"_How_ did that happen?" John breathed.

Mycroft sighed and stared at John. Then he pouted and leaned closer, "Can you keep a secret, doctor? One that is so dark you'd wish you'd never heard so much as a rumor of?"

John nodded. He knew already, didn't he?

"You texted that Sherlock had given you _his_ story, Dr. Watson. Well, I'm awfully sorry to tell you another version," Mycroft said and John looked at him inquiringly, "My brother as you must be well aware of by now has some peculiar opinion of the world and his own deranged position in it. He sometimes loses track of … _reality_. And he sometimes imagines to _feel_. He has no feeling, let me assure you."

"But the branding..:"

Mycroft's eyebrows shot upwards and he smiled quizzically, "_Self-inflicted_, I'm afraid."

"But he said-" Mycroft cut John short, "Whatever he said, let me put your mind at rest on the point of any possible sexual assault. It didn't happen. Or does Sherlock look like a rape victim to you?"

"No, but-"

Mycroft's smile widened and he gave the doctor a curt nod.

"He said the aggressors did. Horrible things to him. Made him. Do things, too. They hurt him."

"And he didn't put on a fight? Doesn't sound likely, does it?"

"He was thirteen!"

"I know his age!" Mycroft's voice thundered, "He was nine when he started smoking. Ten when the pills started. Eleven when he took to cocaine. By fifteen he'd long been injecting himself. He's by no means the innocent victim you see him as. He loves the role. He feels guilty, I suppose. Of having traded his body for drugs."

"Last night, he sounded. Convincingly broken."

"He _is_ convincingly broken."

"So you didn't. Save him?"

"I put an end to the farce he had got himself into. Save him? I don't think anybody can save my brother."

At that point John had stopped listening. He had thanked Mycroft for his time and had refused the better-off man's offer to pay for John's tea. Mycroft genuinely disliked Sherlock. The realization made John feel utterly sad.


	5. Chapter 5

**Something else about John**

The visit had not helped. When John returned to Baker Street he felt more puzzled than ever. Heaving a sigh he put down his jacket and sat heavily on the sofa. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John glanced around. His flat mate had always been so private and secretive. He had never brought home partners of either sex, so that John was certain that those partners did not exist. But then Sherlock might as well find his distractions elsewhere, seek his pleasures in other places than the common rooms of Baker Street. Still John felt that this was not the case. Sherlock did not _do_ sex. He had said as much when he had told him about the _first __**and**__ last time_ he had-

John's eye caught a large envelope on the table in front of him and he frowned. It was padded or it contained a lot of paperwork, and it was addressed to him in Sherlock's hand. He picked it up and opened it, wondering why Sherlock had left it on the table. Inside were a scrap of paper wrapped around four Polaroid snaps and a dog-eared manila file. John unfolded the paper and read the bitter note, "I knew you'd go and make inquiries. Surely Mycroft has convinced you of his account of the matter. At least he will have left you in doubt and I value your opinion too highly to blame you for questioning my story as the delusional ravings of a furtive addict. These photographs are genuine. As is the file. They will help you form an impartial opinion. Please do not pass them on". John turned the pictures around in his hand. Then he picked up the file. The cardboard was old, its colour faded. There were discoloured patches, too, where the sun had bleached the material. Early 90s, he guessed. Since when did Sherlock keep old case notes? John flipped the folder open and smiled at the crisp sheet of paper reading, "I don't. But in this case I'd like _you_ to. SH". _Okay_, Sherlock had him. John took out the sheet and began to read:

Your details (complainant) 08 06 1992

Title: e.g. Mr MR

First name: Sherlock

Surname: Holmes

Date of birth: 6/01/1977

Address: 35 Cavendish Close

Post code: NW8

He gulped. He knew what he was reading. How had Sherlock known? Why did he suddenly want to share his past? John didn't think he knew Cavendish Close. But he knew it was somewhere posh. He read on and Lestrade's words were confirmed. Sherlock had, indeed, made a formal complaint against his teacher. John looked at the medical report and bit his lip furiously when he realized the full cruelty of the boy's injuries:

"Indicators that physical abuse has occurred include injuries or bruises, while behavioral indicators (below) have also been observed in the victim. In this case, there have been sprains and dislocations of both wrists and left ankle (consistent with the pulling of arms and leg(s) and the twisting of the right hand), fractures of index and middle fingers of the right hand, cigarette burns to forearms, shoulders and back (clustered, at various healing stages), burn mark to inguinal region, abrasions on hands and knees, lacerations to the back (consistent with belt lashes, some of them infected), internal injuries evidenced by gastrointestinal pain, obstruction, and anal bleeding, bruising (bilateral bruising to the arms, bilateral bruising of hip bones, injuries healing through "secondary intention," discoloration of skin). Notable behavioral indicators have been an impassive calm of the victim, his self-proclaimed indifference towards his injuries, and refusal of painkillers." _That_ sounded like Sherlock, John thought but shook his head at the reference to his friend as the _victim_.

A psychological opinion read: "The adolescent victim, emotionally unstable, withdrawn, suffers from borderline personality disorder characterized by anxiety, impulsiveness, attention deficits, depression, sudden mood cycles, and panic attacks. Mr. Holmes avoids physical contact and refuses to undress before doctors or medical personnel. He has a tendency of behaving passive-aggressively or latently threatening, and of verbally abusing people, in which he has displayed a rich and complex language unusual for his age group. Mr. Holmes has great difficulty getting along with others and seems intimidated by close family members. He has a history of running away from home. He gives information about his abuse freely and unashamedly. However, he denies any need for help and refuses therapy. He is negligent and indifferent about his studies, but manages to sustain exceptional performances. He wears clothing to purposely conceal self-inflicted injuries." John smiled. _That figured_.

"Alarming observations: The victim has developed a severe eating disorder (lost 12 pounds) and has attempted suicide (overdosing on _OxyContin_, slitting his wrists). Has also developed high-risk behaviours such as substance abuse (cocaine, morphine) and a cutting addiction. Low libido caused by gastrointestinal distress (temporary dysfunction). Victim claims being asexual." _And still does_, John added in his thoughts.

Next was Sherlock's statement, written in his spidery hand, and about half a page long. He had not wasted his words: "I, Sherlock Holmes, hereby accuse my head teacher, Mr. Cecil Moran, of repeated physical abuse and multiple sexual assault. Over the past six years, Mr. Moran has severely beaten me on numerous occasions. I cannot tell the exact reasons for this maltreatment, but I can reliably say that his actions gave him great pleasure. On the 1st of June, I reported him to the police as he was showing an increased interest in my nether regions, something he had never taken an interest in before. Instead of belting or burning me (cf. my complaint of 10-05-1992), he fondled me gently. Identifying this not quite fatherly gesture as harassment, I decided to defend myself and ask the authorities for help. Unfortunately, I lacked proof for my words, so any investigation was dropped and things returned to normal. Yesterday, 07-06-1992, they came to their unlovely conclusion. After belting me and knocking me unconscious, Mr. Moran stripped me and abused me sexually. The photographs enclosed are evidence of the severe injuries I sustained during the rape. I wish to point out that I did not consent to the act. I am not interested in sex. I have never desired to practice it, and I am not willing to repeat the experience." John made a face. The statement's lack of emotion spoke for itself, he found. He gulped and turned to the polaroids.

The top one showed a blurred dorm scene involving three people and leaving no doubt as to what they were doing. One bulky boy was holding down a lanky pale person with curly dark hair, face-down, on a bed while a thickset man was lashing out at the naked back of the victim. John could make out red marks on the white skin. The second photograph showed the same group, this time with the adult penetrating the victim boy. John wrinkled his nose and shook his head in disbelief. This was sick, he thought and flapped on. Photo number 3 was the boy's swollen and tear-stained face, the man still towering behind him. Someone had written crude wordplay on the wide margin: "Shh-WHORE-Lock Holmes," the M in his second name crossed out again. John's heart missed a beat as he painfully realized what he was looking at, or rather who. The face, so much less mature and yet so strikingly angelic, was an undeniable fact. The boy looked as if in desperate pain, his innocent lack of understanding mixed with hopeless fear. John gulped and dreaded the last picture of the terrible rape series. Nevertheless he looked at a very young Sherlock Holmes, vulnerable and exhausted, beaten, bruised, face stained and smudged with tears, sweat and other fluids that probably weren't his own, rimmed eyes closed, lips swollen, caked and slightly parted, nose running, hair stuck to his forehead. John gulped away tears and slid the photographs back into the envelope.

"That's how Mycroft saw me," a familiar voice said and John looked up to see the well-known face wearing the same expression as it had all those years ago.

"I guess I was imagining things rather vividly," Sherlock continued sarcastically.

"I…I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Sherlock held up a hand and then reached out for the envelope, "I know. I'm not taking offense at your will to learn the truth. That was a sensible thing to do. I just wanted _someone_ to believe _me_."

"Who were they?"

"Mr. Moran. Geography. Julian Barnes, Spencer Johns. I guess that's my excuse for missing out on the solar system," Sherlock sat himself down on his old leather seats armrest, "Mr. M was rather occupied teaching me more worldly things." John's face fell and he stared at his friend who smiled wickedly, "Sherlock Holmes, teacher's whore. Pleased to meet you, doctor. I don't do friends, but I take it up the arse."

"_Stop that_," John whispered, "Why didn't you go to the police earlier?"

"Come on. KS3 aged 9 – who would have believed the intellectual freak?"

"Nine?"

"When it started," Sherlock's voice was a mere whisper.

"You had to bear _this_. For six years?"

Sherlock gulped and nodded. He had been too scared. And too ashamed. John saw. He had known that Mycroft's version was heartless and cruel. He scolded himself for listening to the pompous bastard.

"Besides, Mycroft found it rather difficult to take steps after I was expelled," the detective smiled.

"Expelled?"

"For taking substances from the chemistry lab," Sherlock grinned.

"You didn't-" John was stopped by the aloof look on his friend's face, "I had to. Self-preservation. Had to dull my brain, keep me from thinking." John shook his head, "Your brother mentioned drugs."

"Drugs, pills, call it what you like," tears welled up in the detective's eyes and they gave John a sharp pang, "You were. A child!" Sherlock nodded, "Grew up fast though, I think."

"Have you ever-"

"_No._"

"What about a love-life?"

"Love wouldn't necessarily involve sex."

"Do you-"

"No."

"You don't do _anything_? Not even to _yourself_?"

"Problem?" Suspicious.

"No," John said and neither spoke for a while. Sherlock stared out of the window. This hadn't gone well at all. Of course, he avoided sex. He hated his body and he did not wish to see other people out of their clothes either. He felt no physical need to relax in a gentleman's way. And he had no desire to get laid. Yet he had enjoyed holding John's hand what seemed ages ago. He smiled to himself, still proud of having done it. _In public, too_. He had felt John respond to his touch. It had been right. And then things had gone all wrong. Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it, but John had turned him down. And later, _he_ had taken _his_ hand. He didn't understand. And then the alley. Why couldn't Sherlock think of the man he killed? Why didn't John speak about _him_? Why did it have to be Sherlock's past? What good did it do?

"Sherlock?" John called him out of his reverie, "Let's go out".

"Where?"

"Never mind. Coming?"

Sherlock shrugged, surprised, but told his flatmate to give him a second to put on some clothes.

They took a cab to the Eye and Sherlock watched in amazement when John asked to have a cabin to themselves, explaining something to the operator in a low voice.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Just as you wished. Next one's yours," the young man looked over at Sherlock and ushered them through. John chuckled and pulled at Sherlock's arm.

Still chuckling and grinning like mad, the two men admired the view while the wheel turned slowly.

"Beautiful," John sighed.

"What is?" Sherlock's eyes wandered over the City.

"You are," John replied without thinking, and Sherlock frowned, turning towards John, inquiringly.

"_London_. Is. I mean."

"That's not what you just said," Sherlock insisted.

"No, well, ahem," John blushed and turned away, quietly chuckling and shaking his head.

"Did you mean that?"

John still chuckled quietly, "Mean what?"

"What you just said. About-"

"_London_. Being beautiful? Oh, yes. Crazy place, dangerous, full of secrets," John explained.

"_John_."

"Quite cool. On the outside. You've got to warm to-"

"_John_!"

"I know. I had better shut up," John broke off but Sherlock cut in, "No. _Tell me_-"

"I can't," John said, but turned to face the young man. And then he thought, _to hell with it_, and grabbed Sherlock's collar to pull him closer and draw him into an intimate kiss. Sherlock responded, accepting what was offered, allowing John to push him against the glass frame of the cabin, still pressing his mouth to his. Sherlock felt like falling, too much blood in his stomach pulling him down. He put a hand on John's shoulder, panting for breath: "_John_. Stop." Weak hands tried to push John off, when Sherlock's knees gave in and he briefly fainted. John caught the collapsing man and held him, slowly helping him to the floor, supporting him as he sat and stared.

"Didn't know I had _that_ effect on people," John mumbled when Sherlock had come to and apologized sheepishly.

"Low blood sugar. Not your fault."

"You _want_ that cereal bar I offered you earlier?" _Wow_. Things _had_ gone back to. _Mad_. Barking _mad_. Sherlock refused, and John told him he had to eat.


End file.
